Breathing
by TheKFakt0r
Summary: Most of those who are destined to encounter war do not leave it alive. This is both true and false for Noxus' undead juggernaut, and this paradox carves out a miserable existence. Witness a moment of "life" for this poor, unfortunate soul. Cover art by Reddit user pinktoesincold, whose work inspired this one.


There's a certain degree of ease to violence.

Many might disagree with this statement, claiming that combat is something that disgusts them or is difficult. They say it's exhausting, painful, frightening; any number of negative words that summon a sense of dread when they roll off the tongue. In fact, most would agree with such statements. But for others, doing war comes naturally. It can come as naturally as breathing. Claiming victory is as normal as blinking an eye. Violence is their peace, the battlefield their home. All that would interrupt the natural flow of life for such individuals would be death.

This is not so for Sion, the undead juggernaut of Noxus, the slayer of kings, the "man" whose soul itself is like a furnace. Death had its chance with Sion, and it lost.

When the two great nations waged war, it was Sion who brought an army to square off against the Demacian forces. It was Sion who blew through front lines, crushing everything and everyone who opposed his motherland. And when the time came for Sion, it was he who spat in its face, defied the mortal coil, and strangled the king of Demacia to death with his bare hands. Only then did the warrior fall still. It was a life destined for the battlefield, and ended as such.

Noxus, however, had more plans for the man. And so, they too decided to spit in the face of death, and attempted to bring him back. While they were successful in doing so, death has a certain way of tainting whatever it touches. "Sion" was no more; his body was the shell of a man, barely conscious, but still mighty. With all of who he was wiped away, Sion was nothing more than a raging beast, and was thusly locked away for centuries by the very people he gave his life to protect.

Grand General Swain changed this. He let loose the beast against the enemies of Noxus once more, and while Sion was far from the leader he once was, his prowess in battle was still fearsome and dominating. This is how Sion entered the Rift, as the mindless killing machine that charges into battles with the might of a freight train. The caveat here is that Sion is not as mindless as many would lead one to believe.

" _Ally, enemy, I don't care…"_ he muses.

Warriors old and young face the beast. They try to bring him down, but the wounds bring him no pain. He cleaves, roars, tackles, burns, but does not fall.

" _What am I…?"_ he ponders.

His rotten flesh parts at the seams; the armor bolted into his skin cracks. He continues fighting anyway. Another corpse for the pile falls.

" _Die and be silent!"_

Crush, maim, kill, slaughter. Burn, break, shatter, ruin.

" _What toll have I paid?"_

Destroy, rip, bludgeon, tear. Bite, claw, slash, dismember.

"Where has it all gone?" He looks around, trying to find glory and victory as if they were tangible things. He looks for the thrill of battle, but it is nowhere to be found. All that remains is a pile of corpses. No enemies stand anymore. The battle is done. He turns around, expecting to see his soldiers or Swain or an ally or someone with whom he can make the dreaded march to the next succulent battlefield.

But behind him, too, is a pile of corpses. Black and red, the colors of Noxus. They bear wounds far too large to be from anything except…

His axe. It falls from his hands.

He looks down at his hands, covered in blood just like the blade. For once, he seems to grasp at something. A sustained thought, so evanescent in the past.

" _What have I done?"_

Such questions often flash through the mind of the juggernaut, but they disappear just as quickly as his opposition. This time, however, it seemed to stick.

" _What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?"_

His muscles, numb and torn, tense up. If his eyes could produce tears, they would. The furnace that is his soul feels cold. For once, he feels pain. He wants to scream, to cry out, to question the very universe for what has been done to him to make him so inhuman while still so very, very much human. He gave his life for Noxus, and now he had to give his afterlife too?

All he can summon are long, pained groans. He still stares at his hands. His eyes begin to refocus, and his hands become blurry. Beneath them, on the ground, his axe. Without further ado, he grabs it with both hands. He looks off at the horizon, the empty frontier that his enemies reside within. He forgets the faces of the slain, the furnace lights up once more. The hunger continues to gnaw. What remained of Sion was once again drowned out, and the machine resumed its march. Noxus suffers no cowards, and the enemy awaits. There is always another line to break, another war to win.

It is like breathing.


End file.
